


Cradle

by yeaka



Category: Maleficent (2014)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 14:01:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2624438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A moment of Diaval coming to the nest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cradle

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: My first go at this fandom. Hi~
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Maleficent or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

By the time he reaches the ruins, the moon’s high in the sky. It’s so deep into the night that even the moors show it, even though they’re always dark. Diaval has faint memories of a time, long ago, when the sun actually reached the water, when the plants grew green and pink in the yellow light of dawn, but now everything’s washed blue in the starlight. His bare feet pick through the crumbling underbrush, scratched and calloused far beyond his talons would be. 

Normally, she would transform him. He could fly back, so much faster, guide Aurora home and return in moments, on those few occasions when Maleficent couldn’t bear to bring Aurora back herself. But today Aurora wanted to talk, and a raven makes poor conversation to a human. Now that she’s safely in bed, those foolish faeries who miss-raised her none the wiser, he’s creeping back in his awkward human body. 

He crosses the icy stone of the old ruins, the black tops reaching for the sky and the bottoms crumbling into nothing. Every time he walks across this bridge, his footfalls come too heavy, and he’s sure it’ll collapse with his weight. And he won’t be able to fly away. Would Maleficent catch him, he wonders? Make trees rise from the cliff and cushion his fall?

The center of the ruins is so cast in darkness that it’s difficult to make her out, even with her form so impressive and her skin so pale. He finds the edges of the nest first, curled moss and soft branches and a thicket of vines, turning brown at all the ends. Diaval is careful with his steps as he circles the nest, picking out her body in the center, disappearing into her black cloak. She looks so peaceful when she’s asleep. And she never does when she’s awake. For a moment, Diaval stands over her, watching the steady breath mist out of her red lips, her breast lifting with each draw. It’s easier to sleep in the body he was born in, but he couldn’t wake her to turn him back, not when she’s relaxed and well and almost happy. The only times she ever smiles, beyond out of cruelty, are those rare moments with Aurora where she’s forgotten what she’s done, and he appreciates the pure line of her mouth now, absent of a frown. 

He’ll have to sleep like this. It’s cold in this gangly human shell, bare skin with no feathers. She wraps him in cloth when he transforms, but it’s light and flimsy and the stone around them is chilled in the darkness. But there is no choice, and he slowly lowers to the floor, as quiet as he can. He doesn’t want to wake her. He settles behind her so his laboured human breathing can’t puff over her, and he faces her in the center of the nest, the long, elegant outline of her silhouette holding him in its grasp. 

She seems warmer in sleep than she does in consciousness. He can faintly see the outlines of the torn skin in her back where her wings used to be. As his arms wrap around himself, his side all prickled with the odd ends of the nest, he thinks, not for the first time, that he’d like to touch her. She strokes him, sometimes, when he’s a bird, but he would never do the same to her. Yet the frost doesn’t wrap around her like it does around him, and she’s the one that left him like this, strange and exposed. 

He stares blearily at her back for several more minutes before he breaks, reaching out a hand, fingers curling and pressing lightly into her spine. Even through the fabric, he can feel her heat. He wants to hold her for more than that, but that’s the excuse he’d give. 

But he doesn’t want to hurt her, doesn’t want to do anything she doesn’t want, so he withdraws his hand. 

He rolls closer, closing the gap, but he stops short of touching her, one arm reaching back to be his pillow and the other curling against his chest. He fits their bodies together everywhere he can, stretching out his legs and bending them around hers, always with that sliver of air between. It gives him both an odd, pent up relief and a nervous, cloying fear. 

Then her silk-smooth voice purrs through the darkness, “What are you doing?” And his heart freezes in his chest. 

His first instinct is to say, “Sorry.” He waits for her elbow to jut back or foot to smash into his, or even the magic to blow him away, topple him out of the nest, but the green light never comes. So he licks his lips and continues: “I’m cold. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Her shoulders shift. He scoots back just as she looks over, back at him, translucent eyes piercing through the black. His whole body seizes with nerves. She tells him quietly, “I was never asleep.” He feels like a fool and is sure she’s going to hit him. Or at least turn him into a raven and banish him from the nest. 

He’s shocked when she lifts a hand, only to crook her finger. Beckoning him. He simply stares at it until she reaches to grip his shoulder, tugging him over. Then he snaps to life, obediently lifting to hands and knees and crawling over her body, lying, instead, at her front. She pushes him back down and rolls him up onto his side, facing her, long nails still along his bicep. She repeats, “Cold.” Like a question, but not quite. He nods and doesn’t say _you made me like this._ For a few seconds, she studies him, and he can see in her face all the places she’s softening, all the bitterness that Aurora’s chipped away. Maleficent isn’t there yet, but she’s getting better.

She’s healing. Diaval would give anything to be a part of that, but he’s smart enough to know that he isn’t. And he’s glad for Maleficent, for Aurora, for the love that’s so strong between them. 

He’s proud to be on the fringes, and he stays by Maleficent’s side until she nods, like making up her mind. She tugs Diaval closer, so close that their knees bump, and she strokes her long fingers back over his hair. His eyes flutter half shut instinctively, voice crooning; he _loves_ when she does that. 

Then she runs her hands around his back, wrapping him in her arms, and she closes her eyes. Heat radiates into Diaval’s body through her fingertips, magic and natural company and a whirl of bubbling desire. He wants to just watch her face, since he’s been given an invitation to lie so close, but he’s tired and now extraordinarily comfortable and wants to follow her, like he always does. 

He’s halfway off when she whispers, breath ghosting over his lips, “If I had my wings, I could keep you _so_ warm.” Diaval doesn’t know what to say. 

He tentatively reaches to hold her back. He expects her to stiffen, but she doesn’t react, just stays limp in his arms, heavy with so many things. He holds her until she truly falls asleep, and then he follows, always her loyal shadow.


End file.
